Counting and Checking
by ebec11
Summary: After the war, Hermione struggles to deal with a severe case of obsessive-compulsive disorder. Oneshot.


I have rituals that I must do daily. Currently I follow one hundred and six different rituals, though many of them are similar to each other. Checking if the lights are on is different to me then checking if the lights are off, though they both require me to say Lumos and Nox over and over again. They control me more then I control them, yet I must do them to prevent disaster. I am not sure what disaster this is; perhaps it is just the general fear of failure and death that everyone has – amplified.

I know the Muggles call this obsessive-compulsive disorder. Wizards do not acknowledge this condition at all. Other Wizards with obsessive-compulsive disorder have been admitted to St. Mungo's with the craziest of them. When I learned that, it made ritual number 42, showering four times a day for forty minutes each time. It was originally ten minutes, then twenty, then thirty…but thirty only lasted 3 days because it seemed like it was an odd number, even if it ended in an even number. If I was clean, then I would not get sick, then I would not go to St. Mungo's and they would never find out about the obsessive-compulsive disorder.

I know the constant checking, counting, checking, counting, checking, counting is ruining my life. Did I say that eight or nine times? I don't deal well with odd numbers; they are crooked and represent everything that is illogical and wrong to me. I recount and I breathe a sigh of relief when I realise it is eight.

I don't know if I want to change this, if it is even possible. It is a part of my life, even if has ruined it as well. I could have been so successful; I had top marks in all classes before seventh year. But when I came back after hunting the Horcruxes with Harry and Ron, the quirks I had turned into obsessions that I could not control. It started with hand washing, trying to get rid of the blood of those that I killed in the war. I could see their eyes dimming into a realm that does not seem real, and I felt dirty from it. I started to edit my homework all the time, to the point that an assignment that should have taken a couple hours to complete would take weeks for me to do. The teachers tried to help, me being the war hero and all, but it was no use. It only got worse, to the point that I was late for all of my classes because I had to go up and down the stairs until it felt right. Half way through the year, I had to drop out of Hogwarts. I never got to graduate, get a job, or do anything useful with my life.

I'm stuck in my tiny one bedroom apartment, struggling to pay the bills because I have no money to do so and it takes so long to count the numbers over and over again to make sure that I am paying the right amount of money to the landlord. Sometimes Harry will help me, his emerald eyes dull and saddened as he watches me retype the numbers into my Muggle calculator repeatedly. He wishes that things were like before. I cannot even go to a library now, and I hardly ever joke around anymore. Still, he's there, I believe only for pity and loyalties sakes.

Ron has moved on. He does not understand that I can't control this. He does not understand that these quirks are not meant to hurt him. It is selfish of him to leave me, but I understand. He is just a boy, and he wants to live a life without rituals and cleaning and constant tears. Harry doesn't understand what I go through either, but he knows that his being there helps me in some small way. He know I need a friend, even when it takes me hours and hours just to come out the living room to see him and the baby. I don't know if I can even see him once James turns into a toddler, babies are pure and clean, but toddlers touch so much mud and germs. Even now, I have to wipe the baby down with a Muggle clean wipe before I hold him, if I feel clean enough. I manage to do this once every two weeks, despite the anxiety that comes with it, because I do love that little boy.

I miss my old life, but when I try to stop, the anxiety is so overwhelming that I feel as though the rituals are better, a safer option then dealing with the problems. I understand, deep down, that it will never get better if I don't try to fix it, but I've given up. I don't think it is possible for me to live a normal life anymore.


End file.
